Angel's Song
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: [YAOI] It doesn't snow on Gunsmoke, yet Wolfwood has dreams of snow and of Vash. Then an unexpected present makes his dreams come true. A Christmas fic, or my best attempt.


Summary: My best stab at a Trigun Christmas fic. It's not easy to do, actually!

Warnings: Some language. Yaoi. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

*****

Angel's Song

*****

He passed by it three times before he could hardly pretend not to care believably. So he stepped inside the dark shop that smelled old and sweet all at once and told himself he was just looking. No harm in looking, after all. 

The little treasure was set atop a pedestal just inside the shop's grimy windows--a perfect beacon calling to idle shoppers, charming them into the mysterious shop. Wolfwood leaned in close to it, noting how it looked out of place beside the other oddities, which were rough and unpolished. 

What had caught his eye was a small, winged, crystal child perched on a round base. The angel, for surely that is what it was, seemed far too precious to sit alongside the other, rusty antiques. Even the base itself was of some shining metal and its golden color was reflected in the wings that stretched out far behind her. Or was it a boy? It was hard to say. Only the thing's beauty was a guarantee with its smooth cheeks and delicate features carved lovingly into the clear stone. Wolfwood felt compelled to lift it close to his face, to study its beauty more closely. 

It was cool in his fingers, as if the shop's darkness kept heat away as well. And its weight was a surprise, that something so pretty and light-filled proved to weigh so very much. So he held it firmly and gazed at its little face. It made him think of one of the children at the orphanage, with its hands clasped together in earnest prayer and its wide eyes almost closed. But what was it for?

He turned it every which way, careful not to drop it, trying to figure out its purpose. He gave it a little shake and even smelled it but it was still a mystery. He was starting to feel pretty silly when a voice stopped him.

"It's a music box," it rasped from some hidden location. Wolfwood gave a start but calmed soon enough, following the voice to a corner where a little man sat stooped on a stool, surrounded by old, dusty books. Apparently he had been reading but he sat the thick book aside for a moment. The man looked thoroughly amused by Wolfwood and gave his glasses a firm push even as his smile widened. 

"A...music...?"

"Music box," the little, round man repeated and laughed. "Turn that knob there and you'll see what I mean. No, on the bottom. Yes, right there. Ahhhh!"

Almost shocked enough to drop it, but holding his hands steady by determination alone, Wolfwood watched as the little angel began to rotate on its base. He was suddenly anxious holding it; afraid he really might break it. He sat the music box down on the nearest, clean space and watched transfixed as it spun and spun all to a tinkling, metallic lullaby. 

"Lovely, isn't it?" the little man inquired, more interested in Wolfwood's reaction than in his wares. He studied the man in black, how his eyes stayed wide and how his mouth could not form words. He gave his beard a tug and waited while Wolfwood marveled. 

For a minute, Wolfwood thought he recognized the clear tune the music box played. But he soon forgot that sensation and was swept up in an inexplicable feeling of joy. The song, together with the angel, twirling and reflecting the dim light of the shop, worked a certain magic on him. Suddenly, he was smiling. 

"How much?" he whispered. Before his eyes, the angel's turn slowed and the song clunked out a few more sad notes before halting. Somehow, these notes were indescribably mournful, as if the song would never play again, even if he wound the music box. Wolfwood found his smile sliding away with those final notes. 

The shopkeeper named the price, which was high, and Wolfwood hesitated for a moment. Why spend money on something so frivolous? Did it have any real purpose other than to play music that always ended and left you feeling empty? 

Yet the small warm spot that had flared inside him for the briefest second pushed his hand into his pocket and handed over the money. The sale was over quickly and Wolfwood found himself staring down at his purchase feeling glad somehow. 

"Thank you," he said to the shopkeeper, and he actually meant it. The shopkeeper in return only gave another laugh and went back to his book. 

Outside, the suns were so bright in contrast to the darkened shop that Wolfwood thrust his sunglasses on his face instantly. Beside him in a little cloth sack, the music box was wrapped up and protected. He wondered again why he had bought it, but shook his doubts away when the song thrummed from his memory in his ears. 

*****

When he slept, he dreamt of snow. No, he had never seen it. But sometimes the old men and women in towns would fall into musing. And though they had never seen the phenomenon themselves, they told what they knew from stories passed down. He had never really considered it before, never cared if the stories were true or not. There were too many other things to worry about: the children, his mission... 

Yet in his dream he was smiling and snow was falling all around him from a bright blue sky. It was soft and warm and landed on the ground like cotton or feathers might. Something in his mind told him that snow was cold, that the elders always said so. Still the dream made sense, the warm snow made sense, and he twirled and twirled like the angel on the music box. White flakes fell on his upturned face and stuck in his hair and it was wonderful. 

And in the dream, someone twirled with him and it didn't seem strange at all to see red fluttering in the wind like that: to see red surrounded by white, warm snow. 

He awoke with the song in his head and felt as if he might sing the words, though they died on his lips when his memory failed.

*****

Wolfwood pulled the music box from its bag and gingerly pulled the wrappings off it. He gave the knob two long turns then sat it down on the worn dresser, making a small thud before the tune began.

It still tickled at his mind and he had bought it days ago. How did he know this song? And now it was tangled with his dreams and this silly idea about snow. He almost choked on his own laughter: snow on a horrible place like this. The way the elders talked about it, snow was something good, and nothing good happened here. 

He knelt down beside the dresser and rested his elbows on it and his head on top of those. This brought him eye-level to the kneeling angel and so he stared at the perfect wings and how he could see each feather. How the crystal looked white even though it had every other color trapped inside it. 

And the song was so familiar. It stopped, trailing off on the mournful notes again and the sadness bunched up in his chest almost immediately. 

He wound the music box quickly, feeling the knot ease away, and returned to staring at it, humming along this time. But then his humming was joined by a soft tenor. A soft tenor singing the words confidently...

"Angels we have heard on high  
Sweetly singing o'er the plains,  
And the mountains in reply  
Echoing their joyous strains.

  
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!  
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!"

He sat up quickly and turned to the door and towards the owner of the voice. Vash stood just inside the room in a simple white shirt and khakis. And he was singing. 

Wolfwood listened, feeling again that he knew the words somehow, that he had heard them before. But he was shocked more than anything, that it would be this man who knew the words. That this man, once again, proved to be the missing piece to the puzzle. Wolfwood simply couldn't take his eyes off Vash while his mind worked through the scenario, but Vash was staring at the music box as he sang along, an unreadable expression on his face. 

"Shepherds, why this jubilee?  
Why your joyous strains prolong?  
What the gladsome tidings be...."

"You know this song," Wolfwood heard himself ask, interrupting the song rudely. Vash's eyes moved over Wolfwood's frowning face, and he smiled in return. 

"Yeah. Where'd you get that?" He didn't even sound hurt at being interrupted. 

Wolfwood didn't know why, but he suddenly wanted the music box to wind down so he could put it away and hide it from Vash. "Got it at a shop a few towns back. Did you need something?" 

He was wearing that smile again, playing the fool; acting as if Wolfwood's sharp tone didn't bother him. "Um...no, nothing." 

And just as quickly as he had entered, Vash departed leaving Wolfwood alone with the silent room and the lyrics reverberating in his mind. The room felt strangely emptier than before. 

__

Angels we have heard on high  
Sweetly singing o'er the plains....

"Gloria, in excelsis Deo," he whispered, staring at the motionless angel though his mind was on a man who was no longer in the room. 

*****

He dreamt of snow again, of spinning beneath it and feeling free. Only now he could hear the song's words from all around him. And the lyrics blended seamlessly with something older, something closer to his heart. 

__

Gloria in excelsis Deo.   
Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. 

Laudamus te.   
Benedicamus te.   
Adoramus te.   
Glorificamus te. 

And even those heavy words were part of the song: no longer full of blind, fearful devotion, but as light as the snow that floated gently to the ground, forming dunes of white that smoothed the earth. He kept his eyes trained upwards, amazed by the clear sky, the suns still shining brightly even as whiteness drifted to the ground. 

Again there was the flash of red beside him. And just like the angel slowing to silence, Wolfwood stopped twirling. He lowered his head and turned to study his sole companion in this snow-filled world. He smiled at him, and was rewarded with a genuine smile in return. 

"Vash," he said and it was only whisper, as soft as a prayer. 

__

Laudamus te.

Benedicamus te.

Adoramus te.

Gloiricamus te.

Yes.

I praise thee.   
I bless thee. 

I adore thee.   
I glorify thee. 

And suddenly, he knew why he had purchased the music box.

*****

Vash heard it too easily. He never slept lightly. And he had a feeling that the intruder wasn't trying very hard to tread lightly. 

He wouldn't have heard him at all had the man wanted to move silently. But apparently stealth was not his intention as Vash heard the footsteps carry the man into the room; heard them stop right beside him and then heard a muted thud of something being sat down on his bedside table. 

The intruder lingered for a bit and Vash wondered why. Perhaps he was looking off into the darkness of the room, thinking. Perhaps he was staring down at the sleeping man in the bed below. Who could say? His presence was a mystery. Actually, the man himself was a mystery all on his own. 

A few seconds later and he left as quickly as he had come. 

Vash waited a heartbeat then opened his eyes. 

An angel stared down at him. 

***** 

"Thank you," he said from the doorway. It seemed hotter than was normal and Vash wiped at his forehead a bit, noticing that sweat dampened the collar of Wolfwood's shirt. Wolfwood only glanced up at him then returned to gathering his few belongings. Everything he owned seemed to stow so easily in the little sack. Though one item was surely no longer in his possession. Still, Vash understood what it was like to have all your belongings fit in one bag. 

Wolfwood stopped his packing to pull out a cigarette. Vash was staring at him, waiting and so he paid extra attention to the task this time, lighting it and diligently ignoring the other man. 

"I like it," Vash continued with all the persistence of a child, unwilling to be ignored. And Wolfwood could hear the question in his voice even before he added, "but why?"

Why? Wolfwood almost laughed. Vash wanted to know why. And Wolfwood wondered for a minute, too. Why had he given Vash that damned music box?

He took a long drag on his cigarette, knowing that he could never say the truth. 

That he gave Vash the music box because Vash knew the words to the old song--words he himself had forgotten. That he gave Vash the music box because he kept dreaming of snow and of Vash wearing red, spinning in flurries of innocent white. That he gave Vash the music box because Vash looked like the angel with those sad, sad eyes and that lovely face. And because Vash made him think of prayers and worship. 

__

Adoramus te.   
Glorificamus te. 

Adoring. Glorifying.

"I dunno," he said instead, turning his back on the other man. For some reason, his cigarette didn't taste right. Probably stale, he thought to himself and smashed it into an ashtray. 

"Not good enough!" he heard, right before something smacked him on the back. 

"Ouch!" He whirled to face Vash who was smiling wickedly, still brandishing the pillow. 

This, of course, meant war. It was a vicious battle, both competitors refusing to give in, their pillows flying through the air with fluffy intent. 

"Tell me why!"

"I said I didn't know! Ouch! That was a cheap shot! You're going down, Tongari!"

"Not a chance!"

Somehow, they were both standing on the bed swinging wildly. Dodging was out of the question and they both took a fair share of damage though Vash landed more blows since he swung faster and Wolfwood made up for it by hitting harder. The fight ended when a dual ripping sound drowned out the laughter and the bravado. 

Wolfwood blinked once, twice. Was he awake at all? It was just like in his dream. With his head tilted up, and red swirling beside him he could almost swear...

"It's snowing," Vash said, breathless and smiling. He gave another turn and white landed on his red shoulders and in his blonde hair. 

"It doesn't snow here," Wolfwood replied automatically but his voice was less vehement than he intended it to be. In fact, he sounded awed and childlike instead. 

The fibers from inside the pillows seemed to hover all around them, heading for the floor with impossible slowness. He felt what remained of his pillow slip from his fingers and was vaguely aware of Vash's fingers releasing the tatters of his own pillow. 

And then they were simply smiling at each other through the drifting cotton. Then the smiles turned to chuckles and those into joyful laughter. Vash's spiked locks had fallen into his face and Wolfwood knew that his own hair was dappled with cotton. He could feel the stuff clinging to his eyelashes and wondered for an instant how they were going to clean all this up.

And then it didn't really matter because Vash was in his arms and they were spinning, tumbling, crashing softly onto the bed, wrapped in snow though his mind told him it was cotton. 

Yes, this was right somehow. Better than a dream and so much warmer and softer. All right, in fact, because Vash tasted like he should: like nothing in particular and everything good. And though his hair was hardly soft, it felt good too, between his fingers and then against his body when Vash moved, shifting to reach sensitive places. 

There should have been a song, perhaps, playing in his ear. Sacred words in ancient tongues. But instead there was only the sound wet lips make against dry flesh and the rustle of clothing as it is removed from eager bodies and tossed onto the floor, forgotten.

He felt flushed when skin was revealed before his eyes. Finally. Vash's body was flawed and scarred, but he had known that before, hadn't he? And it was uncomfortable, metal plates and grids pressing into his skin, leaving marks and cutting into his ribs. Yes, uncomfortable and perfect. Wolfwood stared up at the ceiling and noticed that the air was clear, the remains of the pillows having settled on the bed and floor. So he closed his eyes where the snowfall continued and his gasps seemed to synchronize with it, each noise falling on top of the next. 

He felt his mind drift into lightness, his body shuddering with sensations. He opened his eyes again and looked down at Vash and at Vash's hands; at the hands that had caused the weightless feeling, had made him shiver and arch, twist and buck. He wanted to cry out, but all he could do was sigh, his body lowering back down to earth, as free as angel feathers. 

He only waited a moment before he shifted so that he was looking down at that face. Pale with an openness that hurt to see. Staring down at the man who was good and broken and somehow here with him on a bed, simply smiling up at him as if this were the answer to all the questions. Then Wolfwood did what he had wanted to do for what seemed like months and months and years and years, and he imagined that he could heal, touch each scar, each imperfection, and make them fade away. If only he could do that, make Vash's body an unmarred landscape, a sanctuary just for him. Of course it couldn't be, so he told himself he didn't mind the scars instead and was surprised to find that it wasn't such a lie after all. 

Vash made urging noises, but Wolfwood felt no need to hurry. His fingers seemed to like slowly traversing the lines of this imperfect body; seemed to want to linger here, stroke there, to find all the hidden places that made Vash whimper. 

And now there was music. 

From Vash's lips there was a chorus coaxing Wolfwood on even as Wolfwood's mouth and hands and teeth coaxed the song to new heights. 

It seemed guesswork and luck that he knew what to do so that soon it was Vash who was shuddering. Vash who arched and bucked, and Vash who fell onto the bed, spent and sated. 

Vash who had gasped out a name that made Wolfwood want to cry.

Wolfwood cradled him close to his body, touched wherever he could reach, bathing in the sweat his fingers trailed over the skin and metal. 

He felt his fingers slow first and knew sleep was about to overtake him. Ah, so it was to be this dream again. Swirling red and tumbling white.

"Wolfwood?" 

His eyes snapped open. He grunted in response.

Vash's question was so soft that he was sure he had imagined it at first. "Why?"

Wolfwood frowned, thinking, "because we've both wanted to for ages." But then he realized he had it wrong. Oh, right. The music box again. He saw it flash in his mind from memory, just for a second. The sad, honest face and the delicate little wings. He heard the words of The Mass, which spoke of devotion and adoration. He saw Vash's face and it all made so much sense.

"Well, why?"

Ah, hell. Didn't the man ever give up? 

"Because, Vash," he answered, caressing his face and adding a kiss for good measure, "just because." 

And it wasn't nearly enough, but it would do. 

Vash didn't ask again, though he did kiss him back. For good measure, of course. 

And then he drifted into sleep where there was perfect warmth and snowfall and always Vash by his side with music that sounded like joy itself. 

And here he found the answers.

Because it felt right lying beside Vash, and because his life would be a sad thing without him, and because he felt as if he finally had something to worship that deserved it. Because it may not snow here, but being with Vash in the heat was somehow better. Because of crystal angels with perfect wings and beds covered in cotton and because Vash tasted like sanctity. 

And finally, finally, just because.

~Owari~ 

The angel music box is borrowed from the Squaresoft masterpiece, "Xenogears," if you were wondering. But the song Vash sings is "Angels We Have Heard on High," one of my favorite Christmas songs. The music box in Xenogears really plays "A Distant Promise" which is very beautiful, but not very Christmasy. The portion of The Mass I used translates as follows: 

Glory to God on high.   
And on earth peace to men of good will.   
We praise thee.   
We bless thee.   
We adore thee.   
We glorify thee. 

Wolfwood doesn't quote it directly, he alters it a bit to make it more personal. If you're up on your Latin, you knew that. If you're not, like me, then you didn't! Yes, I had to look it up. I took Latin so long ago that I barely remember it. Sigh. Lastly, if the shopkeeper felt at all like Santa Claus to you, don't worry. It was deliberate. Yikes! I'm lame! 


End file.
